


Ghost In The Mirror

by indaco



Category: Ghost Quartet - Malloy, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Broadway, Character Study, Dave Malloy, Experimental, Gen, Ghosts, How to tag????, Parallelism, Reincarnation, my Dave Maboy, reverse chronological, spooky?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indaco/pseuds/indaco
Summary: How many people hasRosebeen? Sonya's the same as anyone else.





	Ghost In The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Minor TW for a sequence involving Natasha's suicide attempt. Also some of the run off the mill unreality stuff.
> 
> Dave Malloy and I gotta stay on that weird shit. 
> 
> Enjoy:)

_“What do you figure you were in a past life?”_

_“A past life?” Sonya asked incredulously, “I haven’t lived any life but this one!”_

_Natasha ignored her, “Perhaps I was a bird,” The young girl spoke sweetly, “I would be a brilliant bird, I think.”_

_“What makes you say that you have been alive before?”_

_“I feel a kinship with birds!” She joked, “I must've been one!”_

_“You cannot seriously believe in reincarnation, ’Tasha,” The idea frightened Sonya._

_“You believe in many silly things yourself,” She rolled away from her cousin, and onto her back, the grass tickling her face “Why not indulge speculation? I think it’s good fun,”_

_Sonya spoke after some hesitation, “Well...I think I must’ve been a flower.”_

_“What kind?”_

_“A thorny one.”_

_“Of course, of course,” Natasha giggled, “I bet it was a lovely flower, though.”_

_Sonya let out a breathy laugh, and stared at the sky. An oddly shaped cloud floated into view and obscured the sun, consuming her field of vision. She gasped. It was so strange looking._

_“Is that a bear?” Natasha said lightly, “Look Sonya! A bear in the sky!”_

_Goosebumps broke out up and down Sonya’s skinny arms, and she began to shiver. It did look like a bear._

_“What if we hated one another?” She asked nervously after some time, “In a past life, I mean,”_

_Natasha sat up, and pondered her cousin’s question, and laughed. Sonya hesitantly joined in._

_As her laughter boiled down into faint giggles, Natasha sighed, “How ridiculous!”_

✧✧✧

Sometimes, the weight of every bad thing Sonya has ever done feels like it could crush her.

Sonya isn't the type to commit transgressions, it should be noted. She is, more than anything, known for being a kind and timid girl. She always makes sure to not be in the way, to be sweet to her parents and her aunts and to strangers. She never complains, is never late, and doesn't wiggle on her knees while she’s praying in church.

Most of all, Sonya was driven by the desire to be good. To feel it, to be seen as it, and to live as it.

Yet, this self blame has been a disposition of hers since she was young, she'd always figured it may be a by-product of her being an orphan, that when anything bad happens, she assigns guilt to herself. She knows deep down that she isn't evil, or nearly ever in the wrong; but as she tries to soothe the faux-guilt away with these assurances- a voice will nag at her, reminding her of how despicable she's been. The voice stops only when she asks her subconscious for examples.

(And Sonya isn't about to start digging around in her head.)

Her friendship with Natasha is one of her only solaces from this, when these thoughts consume her, her dear cousin is the only one she can possibly dictate her feelings to. And when she does? Natasha hushes her, kisses her cheeks, and embraces her friend.

_“How good you are, Sonya,” She would always murmur sweetly, “And how splendid and how kind- and how happy you've made my life…”_

Now, a time in which the house’s ambiance was tumultuous, and Natasha is still partially laden with the effects of arsenic, is a time in which her guilt is founded. She had told Marya, left Natasha to her own devices, didn't see the signs and-

The part that destroys Sonya from the inside out, making her feel hollow, cold, and _not good-_ was the fact that she believed she was saving her cousin the entire time. 

But she thinks may have just doomed her. 

_As you've done in the past,_ The wretched voice says, _As you are destined to continue to do._

The house was so unnaturally quiet, Marya’s voice no longer booming down the hall, Natasha’s singing had been silenced, even the help had worked themselves into a state of reverent quiet. If Sonya didn't know better, she would be happy about the announcement that Pierre Bezukhov is visiting them. 

Sonya knows he was only really there to see Natasha.

But that would be impolite to say.

Pierre is a strange man. Upon his arrival, he is notably somber, matching the tone of the house; he still carries his air of constant discomfort, of course, but he had also adopted a sense of purpose- and it showed.

 _Perhaps he thrives on this kind of thing,_ Sonya thinks, watching him warily, _Who am I to judge him?_

He greets Marya with a warm embrace, and murmurs something to her, which must've been quite much, by the look on her face upon hearing it.

Pierre rests at a strange place in Sonya’s mind, Marya and Natasha always spoke so fondly of him, but Sonya’s natural passiveness plays too closely to his own social ineptitude, and his interactions with her always left something to be desired.

He wasn't a distrustful man by any means, if anything he had proved himself to be the exact opposite; but Sonya had been raised to adopt a wall of modesty and shyness around men.

And, after the last week’s events- Sonya’s attitude toward men, especially married men, and those of which who wished to visit with her cousin had been a bit tainted.

And Pierre was both.

Despite her best efforts to be mostly unnoticed, he catches Sonya as she moves to her quarters, and takes her hand in his two larger ones, a hint of concern etched into his expression. 

“How are you...handling things?” He asks, entirely sincere albeit a bit awkward.

“As well as I can be,” Sonya responds, “Better than Natasha is.”

He clears his throat, “I see. A poorly chosen question for small-talk.”

Sonya wordlessly communicates, (though part of her regrets her curtness): _Yes. Yes it is._

She turns away, dropping his hand, and looks out the window. As she gazes at the stars, a bitter taste lingers in her mouth.

He nods in understanding, muttering something that must’ve been along the lines of, “Have a good evening”, and moves in the direction of the drawing room.

But before disappearing behind the its grand doors, he turns his attention to Sonya once again, “You saved her twice, you know, and she’ll be well again because of you,” 

Sonya looks back at him with uncertainty. She is about to cry- her appearance betrays this.

It sounds as though Pierre has choked on something, and he clears his throat again before continuing, “And, well- you've done good for her. And though it doesn't appear that way, you have, Sonya- Y-You have.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him open the door, closing it delicately behind him. And after he’s surely gone, Sonya allows herself to smile. Pierre is strange man, indeed.

✧✧✧

_“S-Sonya, wake up, oh Sonya!”_

These are the first words Sonya has heard from Natasha in days. As Sonya blinks in and out of awareness, she sees a panicked Natasha hovering over her bed; looking like a child who has caused a problem that will no doubt get them into great trouble with their parents, but needs their help nonetheless.

Sonya is almost relieved at the sight.

“Sonya! S-Sonya wake up! Wake up!” Why is she crying?

“What has happened?” Sonya asks, drowsy but hurtling towards awareness. 

“I've ruined it all, I've gone and- oh, Sonya I’m so sorry- and s-s-so fright-ened…”

_I know._

“Natasha, calm down,” She sits up, scrubbing her eyes, “Why are you crying in such a way-?”

And then she sees it- an empty vial in her cousin’s hand.

“...What do you have?”

Natasha hands it to her, letting out a sob, “Arsenic, Sonya, arsenic...I-I don't know what to do, Sonya, I don't know! If it wasn't all ruined before, n-now it is! Now I've done it-!”

Sonya is frozen, her hands shake as she reads the label on the bottle.

_The picture of the woman developed slowly, it seemed to take ages. Rose trembled where she stood, The Victim’s cries still ringing in her ears._

“It hurts so much m-more than I was told it would-” Natasha rambles, hoping her words would soothe the situation,“I’m so s-scared. It hurts and- w-what do I do, Sonya? What do I _do?”_

Sonya snaps back into reality, throwing off her covers, and bounds down the hall to Marya’s quarters, her cousin trailing after her.

Arsenic. Why had she drunken arsenic?

_There, in the picture, the woman's form contorted strangely against the train, as her body was crushed. Rose threw down her camera, and it shattered against the pavement._

_Rose’s trembling hands gathered as many pieces of her camera as she could:_

_“I can fix this.” She thought desperately, “I can fix this…”_

✧✧✧

Marya is yelling. Natasha is sobbing, a screeching violin. 

The last thing Sonya can recall is trying to kiss Natasha’s cheek, and her cousin shoving her away. 

_B A N G_

_What have I done?_

Sonya’s ears are practically ringing. Her memory fails her after that.

The smell of freshly brewed tea and the shuffling of bed dressing breaks Sonya from her thoughts. She’s in a different room now, in that dreadfully surreal, floaty state that can only be found through profound emotional exhaustion. Sonya cranes her sore neck to look to the window, the early-morning sun is starting to turn the sky into a murky grey. How long has it been?

“-y finest guest room,” Marya’s full voice seeps into her fog, “Since you and Natalya are having a...tiff.”

Suddenly, she’s is placing a tea cup and saucer in Sonya’s bony hands, “Sugar? Perhaps some honey?”

Sonya nods instinctively. The golden liquid plops unceremoniously into her cup. She distantly watches it stir. 

Marya’s mouth sets itself in its natural straight line. She’s barely keeping it together, and Sonya can tell she’s thinking. She hates that.

“Thank you for telling me,” Marya says finally, “Pierre Bezukhov can help us, I think. We’re old friends, owes me a favor, you know.” 

Sonya nods again, (though she still really doesn’t know why). Marya kisses her forehead before her departure. 

Sonya doesn’t drink any of her tea after she leaves. It doesn’t seem right to indulge in sweets, or anything, rather. 

She never liked honey, anyway. 

✧✧✧

Sonya picks up the paper like it might burn her hands, she hears a creaking, and looks up at the door- frozen like a wild animal.

She breathes in deep, if Natasha caught her now, it would all be over.

_Rose grabbed her sister’s shoulders;_

With her skirt balled in her hands, Sonya runs down the hallway toward Marya’s quarters, afraid that if she hesitates, even momentarily, she would go back on the ordeal. She raps on her door twice, and as she hears ruffling and the padding of feet, goosebumps prick up on her skin.

_With a change of footing, she shoved Pearl with a rage that she had only been seen in the heavens- Ross interpreted the heavens differently now- she had really only seen them once. She had peered through The Astronomer’s telescope, and space had roared with of passion; but the memories of the stars in the sky now left a bitterness on her tongue; which was a twinge sweetened by putting her anger into the force of the shove._

Before Marya can greet her, Sonya is already shoving the letters into her hands. 

“What is this?” 

“They belong to Natasha,” Sonya spoke softly, “You're familiar with the Kuragins?”

Marya looked like she had tasted something bad, “What do they have to do with Natasha?”

Sonya looked at her feet in shame. Marya began scanning the letters.

_But the dismount wasn't smooth as Rose had hoped, and Pearl caught her wrist on the way down. She looked her older sister in the eyes, with a look of fear and betrayal ten times greater than anything Rose had felt across any lifetime. Rose’s arm, wet with rain, was soon lost by her sister’s grip. And her sister fell back into the frigid river with a scream- struggling only for a moment, before the ice cold water paralyzed her, and she drowned._

As Marya read, her brows furrowed, then her eyes widened, she continues flipping through the letters, before finally looking up at Sonya in disbelief. 

_And Rose watched Pearl’s willowy form float downstream, her silvery hair creating a halo around her head, Rose pulled her cloak tighter around her form, the weight of what she's done settling hard and heavy in her chest. The wind, the rain...how dreadful._

✧✧✧

The day before Sonya found the letters was a normal day, considering.

She and Natasha were lying on her bed when Sonya was suddenly stricken by a memory from their childhood, “Are you still frightened of water?” 

Her cousin gave her an odd look, “No, I haven’t been since I was a young girl.”

“Of course,” She replied, “Why were you so afraid of it?”

Natasha’s eyebrows knit together, and Sonya swears she saw her shiver, “I’m unsure.”

Natasha didn’t take a bath that night, she had only washed her face and arms with a washcloth. Sonya made note of it.

✧✧✧

_Sonya was staring at her cousin when it all made sense._

_Her vision was hazy, and later on chalked up her conclusions to madness induced by stress and fear. Yet, at times, when she remembers it, she’ll feel the dread, the clarity- and it all comes back to her._

_At this point, Natasha had already worked herself into a mania. She would start at the mirror, and established a ritual each time she found herself in front of it. She would sit, with a lit candle, and squint, attempting to look beyond what she was seeing- and then look disgusted, or frightened. Sometimes, she would silently cry, tears running icy rivers down her cheeks._

_What Sonya saw, and what Natasha didn't see, was sunken, star-filled eyes. Sonya, only Sonya, saw how she shook with fear. Her small frame dwarfed by the desperation that practically melted from her like wax, her lovesick heart being the heat it retreated from._

_Natasha would stare, and stare. But couldn't see herself. She could only see the candle, the wick, the ghost._

_And then she would pace, and pace, and pace- and scan the letters, look out the window, stopping at the moon and scanning the stars- but it wouldn't be long until she would be pacing again…_

_‘What have you done?’ Sonya would silently ask as she watched, ‘What must you make me do?’_

_Sonya, herself, had grown delirious. She hadn't been allowing herself to sleep- in fear of her friend doing something rash in her absence. But she could swear, in the candle light and in their shared madness- her friend’s face had grown longer. The whites and creams of her wardrobe contrasted strangely against her skin, and those pearls shined unnaturally against her neck. The whites of her eyes and her teeth practically glowed- and was that silver shining in her raven hair, forming a halo around her willowy frame?_

_Natasha was unrecognizable, yet she had never looked so familiar._

_A thought then manifested from Sonya’s hazy state, which would've been absurd in any other context, but somehow, now, made perfect sense:_

_**You remind me of my sister.** _

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially dedicated to KJ, (tumblr user baezukhov), for letting me dump headcanons in her ask box every once in a while. Stay cool.
> 
> Also for Leo Tolstoy's ghost, for being cool with all the weird stuff being done to his novel.
> 
> Remember to leave a kudos, or even a comment, if ya feelin' spicy.


End file.
